


Fall at the Center of Anywhere

by zoicite



Category: Hair - MacDermot/Rado/Ragni
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-04-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:58:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoicite/pseuds/zoicite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds Claude sprawled across Sheila’s bed, staring at the ceiling with his sneakers on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall at the Center of Anywhere

He finds Claude sprawled across Sheila’s bed, staring at the ceiling with his sneakers on.

“Hey, man,” Berger says as he takes a step into the room. “Thought you were going home.”

Claude grunts and reaches out a hand toward Berger. Berger takes another step forward so that Claude’s fingers touch his left knee, finding their way through a tear in Berger’s jeans to rest on his skin.

“Door was unlocked,” Claude notes.

Berger shrugs. He thinks he’s probably lost Sheila’s key. She’s been gone for a week now, doing her thing in D.C., saving the world, and she won’t be home for a few more days. Weeks, maybe. She told Berger and he’d tried to listen, but he can’t remember now. She won’t be happy to find out that her door’s been left unlocked, but Berger has only returned to the apartment to find someone already inside twice since Sheila left, and both times it was just Claude.

Sheila has a roommate, Debbie, but she hasn’t been home in days. Berger keeps expecting her to turn up. He’ll stumble back to the apartment to find that Debbie’s been home and he’s locked out. She won’t let him in. Still, he’s starting to think Debbie’s never coming back. That’s fine with him.

“I finally chased Debbie away,” Berger says. He doesn’t care. He’s not even sure why he says it out loud.

Now it’s Claude’s turn to shrug. Berger can feel the movement from Claude’s shoulders all the way down his arm to the fingers still touching the bare skin of Berger’s knee.

“Debbie hates the world,” Claude says.

Not the whole world. Berger can tell that Debbie likes Claude just fine.

“Maybe she’s never coming back,” Berger says. “You can have her room. Get out of Queens.” He’s never been able to figure out if Queens is worse than Hoboken, but the way Claude talks, it’s got to be close.

“Maybe she got lost,” Claude suggests, laughs a little at himself. His hand inches its way further into the tear in Berger’s pants, his fingers slide around the back of Berger’s knee. Berger laughs and lets Claude pull so that his knee buckles and he collapses onto the bed dramatically, laughing harder when Claude gasps as Berger lands hard on his chest.

Claude is high, high as a kite. Berger can tell by the way Claude is smiling at him, by the way that Claude doesn’t even notice that his hand is now twisted in Berger’s jeans at an uncomfortable angle.

“When is Sheila coming home?” Claude asks then, and Berger’s smile slips for a second before he recovers. Maybe Claude isn’t as high as Berger had hoped.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe she got lost. I don’t care.” He reaches down and untangles Claude’s hand from his jeans, his fingers sliding between Claude’s so their hands are intertwined. Berger rolls and twists so that he’s no longer lying across Claude, their bodies parallel instead.

Claude looks at their joined hands and then reaches up to brush Berger’s hair out of his face.

”I care,” he says.

Berger thinks about saying something cruel, something biting, something completely expected from him, but then Claude leans in and kisses him and Berger holds the words back. Something’s happening. Claude isn’t just high and horny. It’s something else.

“What?” Berger asks, pulling away from the kiss. Suddenly he does wish Sheila was there. Claude talks to Sheila. “What’s up?” Berger asks again.

“Nothing,” Claude mumbles, leans in to kiss Berger once more. He reaches out to pull Berger close, pulling at Berger’s hip until it’s pressed down against his own.

“Claude,” Berger says and knocks Claude’s hand away from his ass. “Claudio.”

Claude is insistent, his hand instantly returning to grip at Berger through denim, to pull him even closer so that Claude can thrust up against him, moaning with the friction of their clothed contact. It’s exactly what Berger was hoping for when he walked in to find Claude sprawled out and waiting. Berger closes his eyes for a moment. This is exactly what Berger wants.

“Come on,” Claude says, his mouth finding Berger’s again, his kiss hard. “I didn’t come here to talk. Tomorrow, Berger. I can tell you all about it tomorrow. Come on.”

It’s probably a lie, but Berger doesn’t care. This is exactly what he wants at this moment. Claude, high and horny. Berger’s all time favorite combination.

He pushes Claude back down onto the bed, straddles him and rocks against Claude’s crotch. He leans in and covers Claude’s mouth with his own just as Claude begins to murmur a breathless “thank you.”

Always so polite. Berger is positive that as hard as Claude tries, he’ll always retain just a little bit of that polite mamma’s boy that was so apparent when they’d first met and that Claude has worked so hard to erase.

Berger cups a palm over Claude’s dick and Claude moans and pushes up into Berger’s hand. Claude’s mother would probably have a heart attack if she walked in on this. Berger met Claude’s mother once. He knows for a fact that Mrs. Bukowski would not approve of his plans for her son.

Berger smiles and unbuttons Claude’s jeans.

**

They spend the afternoon lounging around Bethesda Fountain and talking to a couple from Kansas. It’s their first time in New York and Claude hugs them, kisses their cheeks. Berger laughs as the couple blushes and twitters about how surprised they are to find such friendly people in New York City. He suggests to Sally Kansas that she find them later, that they’ll have fun. Sally stutters and clings to her husband’s arm. To his credit, the husband doesn’t get pissed, just declines the offer for Sally and then let’s Claude hug him again.

Later they find Woof and walk toward the village. Claude rides on Woof’s back for several blocks while Berger tags along behind, his fingers twisted in the belt loops at the back of Claude’s jeans. They raid Sheila’s kitchen, make pasta that’s overcooked and sticky.

It’s after midnight when they start to crash, the three of them sprawled across Sheila’s couch. Berger tells them about the man who showed up in Washington Square Park two days ago. He looks like he’s seen the world, seen it all - or at least New York - and Berger is fascinated. Woof goes on about a girl he met near Times Square. He doesn’t know her name or where she’s from, but she had freckles across her nose and hair that was shiny and black and Woof talks in sonnets until he trails off into silence.

“I love you guys,” Woof says, eventually, and Berger laughs and slides his arm around Woof, his fingers creeping along Claude’s shoulder. Claude covers Berger’s hand with his own, then reaches across Woof to grip Berger’s leg.

Berger thinks that he understands Claude Bukowski pretty well. They’ve known each other a little over a year; they met through Jeanie. Berger has known Woof longer. Sheila, too, but it doesn’t matter. Berger knows Claude.

He knows Claude well enough that he’s not that surprised when Claude grips his thigh and says, “Where do you think we’ll be? Ten years from now.” It’s a pretty typical Claude question.

“I’m going to be an astronaut,” Woof mumbles, lifts a limp arm to wave it up toward the ceiling in a sort of flight path. His eyes are closed and he smiles. Claude leans in and kisses Woof’s cheek.

“Where do you think we’ll be?” Claude asks again, waiting patiently for Berger’s answer.

Berger shrugs and stretches his fingers to tickle Claude’s neck. He knows where Claude will probably be. Settled down in the suburbs somewhere. Some day Claude will become his parents and he’ll probably hope and pray every night that his children never meet anyone like George Berger.

Berger himself, he doesn’t spend a lot of time thinking about the future.

“I’ll be that man on the corner of the park,” Berger says.

“I’m serious,” Claude presses. Berger’s serious too.

“I’ll travel the world,” Berger elaborates. “I’ll be high in every place that’s worth living. You can come with me. We’ll stay high and then we’ll come home. Right here. You and me, Sheila and Woof and Jeanie. All of us. Just like this.”

When Claude doesn’t say anything, Berger goes on.

“I’m going to be that man on the corner of the park,” Berger says again. “I’m going to be New York.”

“Yeah,” Claude agrees and reaches up to take Berger’s hand again, squeezes it a little too hard. “Maybe.”

“Where do you think we’ll be?” Berger asks even though he doesn’t really want to know Claude’s answer.

Woof snores once between them.

Claude turns his head to look down at Berger’s hand in his and says, “My draft notice came in the mail.”

If Claude wasn’t holding on so tightly Berger might have dropped his hand. Instead he smiles and shrugs again and says “Welcome to the club, buddy.”

**

It isn’t the end of the world. It isn’t even a surprise. Hell, half the tribe received their notices and almost all of them are still here, still living their lives, still dancing. Claude can still dance.

He catches Claude staring at his card, turning the small piece of paper in the palm of his hand. It’s a full minute before Claude notices that he has an audience. He smiles at Berger and shoves the folded paper into his pocket.

“Hey,” Claude says. He’s all curled in on himself, hunched a little, his legs folded in front of him. Berger hooks the top of his foot beneath Claude’s knee and nudges until Claude unfolds his legs so that Berger can kneel between them. He holds Claude’s face in his hands and then kisses Claude’s forehead, kisses Claude’s mouth. He plans to leave it at that, but Claude isn’t having it. He grabs Berger’s shoulders and holds him there, his mouth insistent against Berger’s as though kissing Claude is something Berger really needs to be convinced of. Berger smiles against Claude’s lips and laughs when Claude’s hand reaches for the front of his jeans.

“Arrested for public indecency’s a fun way to avoid the draft,” Berger says, his hand over Claude’s.

Claude pulls away then, only his hand remaining in contact with the front of Berger’s jeans, and that only because Berger is holding him there. Claude seems to think for a moment and then he smiles at Berger again, grins, and his hand starts moving, teasing.

“Let’s go,” Claude says, his voice low. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we going?” Berger asks, faking suspicion. Getting to wherever Claude wants to go right now is definitely going to be worthwhile for Berger.

“I don’t know,” Claude says. “Somewhere. Sheila’s, maybe. Anywhere. I don’t care.” His hand is still moving, stroking, and Berger closes his eyes and lets Claude kiss him again.

This isn’t how it usually is. They do their own thing most of the time. They kiss and they flirt and every once in a while the kissing and the flirting leads to sex. It’s no different than what they have with the rest of the tribe. Mostly.

Berger isn’t complaining. Berger would be insane to complain, but three nights of Claude initiating sex with him, and while Sheila is out of town so there is no chance she’ll be joining in. Three nights and Berger’s never been that smart, but he isn’t a complete idiot either. He knows that the draft already has Claude all kinds of messed up.

They have sex on the floor of Sheila’s tiny living room and afterward they lay there breathing heavily and sharing a joint.

“We never do this enough,” Claude says. Berger just nods. “We should be doing this more often.”

“Sheila will be home soon,” Berger assures him.

“This isn’t about Sheila,” Claude says.

“Everything is about Sheila,” Berger counters.

Claude sits up and glares down at Berger, still sprawled naked across the hard floor.

“She loves you,” Claude accuses.

“And you love her,” Berger finishes for him.

“And you,” Claude says.

“You love that Sheila loves me,” Berger concludes.

Claude sighs. “You’re a fucking asshole, you know?”

Berger smiles. He does know. He’s also pretty sure he’s right. When Berger thinks of Claude in ten years at home in the suburbs, it’s Sheila greeting him at the door after work and it’s Sheila’s eyes that smile back from Claude’s children’s faces. Berger closes his own eyes and really hopes that it’s the fucking drugs that have him acting like this. It better be the fucking drugs. It might be time for some new fucking drugs.

Berger reaches for the crumpled pile of clothes and pulls the folded paper from the pocket of Claude’s jeans. He holds it up.

“We’re burning this,” he announces.

“Yeah, of course,” Claude agrees, trying to grab the card from Berger’s hand as Berger waves it out of reach. “Stop.”

“You need to get high, Claude,” Berger says and passes him the joint instead of the paper. Claude takes it, momentarily appeased.

Berger stares at the paper and thinks about tearing it up. Instead he hands that to Claude as well.

Claude takes the card and crumples it a little in his hand. “You’re in love with everything and nothing all at once,” he says.

It doesn’t make any sense and Berger laughs. A smile cracks the side of Claude’s mouth and then they’re laughing together and Claude is pushing the draft card out of sight.

**

Claude disappears for three days. Berger assumes that he’s in Queens. He thinks about going out there and then thinks how pathetic and lame that would look. That and the subway ride to Flushing takes forty five minutes, at least. He spends his nights with Dionne instead.

“You’re quiet, baby,” Dionne points out, watching as Berger pulls his jeans back up over his hips. She reaches out and traces a finger down Berger’s naked back. “Usually you never shut up.”

Berger grunts and Dionne just nods like that’s exactly her point.

She runs a hand through his hair, her fingers becoming tangled and pulling a little. Berger leans down and kisses her stomach, then her left breast.

“Maybe he’s found a new girl,” Dionne suggests. Berger hates that he’s that easy to read.

“Who?” he asks, anyway.

Dionne just shrugs and says, “He’ll be back.”

Berger snorts.

“What?” Dionne asks. “You’re jealous?”

Berger snorts again. “No.”

She leans in and kisses him, her hands guiding his to her breast. When he begins kissing back, pushing her back onto the bed, she laughs and pulls away.

“You’re jealous,” Dionne laughs. “Look at you.”

“I’m not fucking jealous of some girl in Flushing,” Berger says. He tries to kiss Dionne again, kisses her throat as his hand slides down her stomach. She doesn’t stop giggling.

“What if it’s some boy?” Dionne asks.

“It’s not some boy,” Berger says. “Wouldn’t matter if it was.”

“What does matter to you?” Dionne asks.

And maybe it’s the recent orgasm, or the drugs, or the fact that Sheila is gone and Claude has disappeared, but Berger tells her. He tells her about Sheila and about Claude and about the house in the suburbs. He kisses her breasts and tells her about how much Claude wants Sheila, he tells her about Sheila’s children with Claude’s eyes. They’re beautiful and golden.

Dionne laughs. “That’s completely crazy,” she says. “You’re fucking nuts, you know that?”

“Fuck you,” Berger snaps. He should never have said anything, but Dionne is wrapped around him and his head is filled with sex and Claude and Sheila.

“Claude was sleeping with Crissy all last week. You didn’t care about that at all. What about Sheila and that Billy? Sheila and all those NYU boys, so much smarter and older than you. Come on, Berger, baby. You don’t care about any of this.”

“Of course I don’t care,” Berger agrees.

“So just let them have one another and get it over with already. You’re making it worse,” Dionne concludes.

“They can do whatever they want with each other,” Berger insists. “I’m not stopping them.” They can do whatever they want with each other and Berger can do whatever he wants without them. He doesn’t need them any more than they need him. He has Lily and Woof and Angela. He has Dionne. The entire tribe. It’s not like he can’t replace them when they leave him. What he has with Claude isn’t any different than what he has with Dionne. Not really. He can replace them.

**

“I’ve been around,” Claude shrugs when he finally reappears.

“Around where?” Berger asks. He stopped keeping an eye out for Claude two days ago. Still, he spent all morning in Penn Station because he knows Claude likes to watch people come and go. He must have missed Claude coming though, because he left the station alone and by the time he finds Hud and Crissy draped across a fountain in Riverside Park, Claude is with them.

“Just around,” Claude snaps and reaches out to grab Crissy’s arm. Claude pulls her in and kisses the side of her mouth and her eyes crinkle when she smiles. Dionne is full of shit. Berger isn’t jealous at all.

**

It’s a gorgeous day and everything is groovy. Claude’s here and Woof and Jeanie and Hud. The clouds are white and puffy and the sun sparkles on the reservoir. The air smells like dying leaves. It’s Saturday and the park is full of people absorbing the good karma of good weather and Berger feels lucky to be surrounded by them. Berger never wants to leave.

Sheila is on her way home, either tomorrow or the next day. Berger can feel her getting closer, a happy buzz under his skin. He crawls over to where Claude’s standing, his head thrown back, hands extended over his head. Berger wraps his arms around Claude’s waist, presses his mouth to the small strip of skin exposed at Claude’s hip. Claude’s hand falls to rest on Berger’s shoulder. They stay there like that, swaying in the breeze, until eventually Berger releases his grip and falls back into the grass. Claude laughs at him, folds his knees until he’s in the grass too. Jeanie’s there and Claude turns to kiss her pregnant belly, rests his face against her, waiting to feel that spark of life inside her. Claude’s buzzing too, Berger can tell.

It’s all back to normal, Claude and Berger. They flirt and they kiss and they haven’t had sex since before Claude holed himself up in Queens for three days. Life will go on and they’ll avoid the draft and stay high and sleep outside and _be_ the city. Sheila's coming home and everything is back to normal.

**

“Claudio,” Berger says. It’s been dark for hours now, the gorgeous day falling into a gorgeous night, and people are beginning to pair up, head home. “Let’s get going.”

Claude shakes his head. “I can’t. Not tonight.”

“Just tell her you’ll see her tomorrow night,” Berger insists, assuming that Claude has made plans with Crissy or Suzanne or someone. Probably not Jeanie, who has been watching Claude all afternoon. Berger’s been watching Claude all afternoon.

“It’s not that,” Claude says. “I’m just going home.” Jeanie asks him a question then and Claude turns his attention away from Berger.

“Why?” Berger asks even though he knows that Claude isn’t listening. He reaches out and hooks a finger under Claude’s belt, tries to pull him closer. Claude isn’t paying attention to him at all anymore, is talking to Jeanie about something that Berger doesn’t care about. Some author. A book. Claude comes easily when Berger pulls, continues talking while Berger wraps himself around Claude’s body and presses his face to Claude’s warm neck. Claude reaches up, a hand in Berger’s hair. Jeanie clears her throat and Berger thinks he’s won.

“Sheila coming home soon, Berger?” Jeanie asks him.

“Two days,” Claude says immediately, before Berger even has time to remove his nose from Claude’s neck so that he can glare at Jeanie.

“Not that Claude’s counting,” Berger adds dryly, his mouth close to Claude’s ear. They’ve been buzzing all day, but the sun is gone and the park is quiet and Berger misses Claude already. Claude feels tight, strung up. Claude needs to get laid and Berger’s pretty convinced that he should be the one doing the laying.

Jeanie’s watching them. She doesn’t seem that thrilled by Claude’s too quick response either, which gives Berger a little satisfaction. Berger likes Jeanie, he does. He just wishes that Jeanie liked Claude a little less. Hell, Berger wishes that _he_ liked Claude a little less.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow,” Claude says then, releasing himself from Berger’s grip.

“Wait,” Berger says. He’s not giving in that easily. “I’ll walk with you.”

“Berger,” Jeanie starts at the same time that Claude says “We aren’t going in the same direction.”

Berger ignores Jeanie and follows Claude as Claude retreats down a path that leads east out of the park.

“Wait,” Berger says, picking up his pace.

“I have to go home,” Claude says again, but he stops and waits for Berger to catch up. He doesn’t look at Berger, stares down the path instead, and adds, “I have an appointment tomorrow.”

Berger doesn’t ask what kind, can guess the answer from the look on the visible half of Claude’s down-turned face.

“It’s nothing,” Claude elaborates anyway. “It’s just a physical exam. I might not even pass it.”

Berger can feel his eyes narrow. “Come home with me.”

“I’ll see you afterward.”

“Claude.” Berger is not above begging. He sets a hand on Claude’s shoulder, squeezes just a little.

Claude shakes his head and takes a step back so that Berger’s arm falls to his side.

“I’ll come find you after,” Claude insists. He looks past Berger. Berger turns and sees Jeanie coming to stand with them. When he turns back, Claude is walking away again.

“Don’t you think he knows what will happen?” Jeanie asks him, watching Berger watch Claude walk away. “You’ll move on and you’ll forget about him. Claude knows you, Berger. He loves you. That’s why he’ll never have sex with you.”

Berger is only half listening to her so it takes a moment for the words to register. He turns to stare down at Jeanie. “What?”

“He’s never going to sleep with you,” Jeanie says. She always seemed so observant to Berger, she always seemed like she saw everything, _knew_ everything.

Berger laughs. He watches Claude disappear around a bend in the path and then turns to head back toward the group, pausing to wait for Jeanie to follow.

“He’s never going to sleep with you again either,” Berger says.

Jeanie rubs her round belly. Berger swears she’s bigger than she was just yesterday. “Yeah,” she agrees, and Berger feels a twinge of guilt.

“He got his draft notice,” he tells her, reaches out to press a hand against her stomach. In a way, it’s a peace offering.

Jeanie nods. “Poor Claude,” she says and turns away from Berger.

**

He gets kicked out of school nine days after Claude’s draft notice is delivered. It isn’t like he ever really goes anyway. There are more important things. Schools aren’t going to go anywhere.

It’s the first time he’s actually bothered to go in a month and he’s sitting in a chemistry class and Claude is off somewhere with the doctors, poking at him, prodding, deciding if he has enough physical defects to give him a free pass. Berger knows what the doctors will see. There’s nothing physically wrong with Claude and atomic numbers have never seemed more pointless.

He spends the rest of the day in the park, smoking with Woof. It’s nearly dark before Claude finally shows up.

“I don’t want to go,” Claude says. “I don’t want to die.”

He says it to Berger, and Berger wants to hug him, steal the draft card from his back pocket where he knows Claude has it stashed, rip it up, burn it, then head to Port Authority and out of the city now. Right now. Instead he holds Claude at arm’s length and says “You’ll go.”

Claude shakes his head, but Berger thinks he can see the truth in Claude’s eyes, and he keeps going, can’t stop, talks on and on about all the things Claude will do in Vietnam, all the things that they never wanted to be a part of.

Sheila will be home soon. She’s a day later than they guessed, but Sheila will be home and she’ll talk some sense into Claude.

**

“Sheila,” Claude says. He sounds out of breath when he says her name and Berger rolls his eyes. Sheila grins and places the palm of her hand against Claude’s face, leans in to kiss his other cheek.

“Claude missed you,” Berger says.

He’s stating the obvious and Sheila smiles and says, “I missed you too.” She’s not looking at Claude when she says it. She’s looking at Berger. She always sees right through him.

And then Woof lets it slip that Berger dropped out of school and Sheila is questioning, backing him into a corner, and Claude’s eyes are agreeing with her – Claude is such a fucking hypocrite sometimes, and Berger can’t help it. He picks a fight because it’s familiar and because Claude’s going to Vietnam and Berger doesn’t know what to do to stop him. He picks a fight because Claude has been avoiding him for days and is hovering around him like nothing has been weird at all now that Sheila has returned and he knows he’s being an asshole, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He goes too far; he always goes too far.

He tears the shirt – a gift from Sheila. It’s hideous and yellow and he pulls even though he knows that she probably did put a lot of thought into it. Berger tears it in half and watches Sheila flinch as though he is tearing her heart. She’s been home for fifteen minutes and Berger’s already crossed the line. Sheila’s been home for twenty minutes and Claude has already swooped in, the way that Claude always does, to comfort and console.

Berger picks up the shirt and stares at Claude’s back, at Sheila’s face pressed into Claude’s neck, her arms around him. They fit together. He thinks about Dionne and watches Claude tighten his hold on Sheila, and then he steps back, decides that Dionne’s right and gives them some space.

“Where are you going?” Sheila asks, and when he turns she is staring at him over Claude’s broad shoulder.

“I’m going to sew it back together,” Berger says. He’s not great at sewing, but he knows how, he’s done it before, and he thinks he can salvage the shirt. He can do something with it. Line his vest, patch the holes in his jeans. Something. He’ll convince Crissy to help him.

Somehow he must have said the right thing. It doesn’t happen often, but once in a while he gets it right, and before he can react Sheila is wrapped around him. His nose is in her hair and he breathes her in and holds her tight. And then Claude’s there too, his arms around them both, and Berger’s kissing Sheila and he’s kissing Claude and he’s glad that Sheila is home.

**

The rest of the day is a blur, listening to Sheila bubble over with excitement as she recounts her adventures in the capital over and over again to anyone who will listen. Berger does his part by interrupting only rarely, content just to have Sheila wrapped around him again, content to have Claude’s eyes on him, content to have things back to the way they’ve always been. And then it’s dark and they’re on the subway, tangled up in each other and oblivious to the rest of the car. Claude laughs as he follows Sheila and Berger, bounding up the stairs to Sheila’s apartment, Berger clutching Sheila’s hand and dragging her behind him. Berger smiles, feels like it’s been months since he’s heard Claude really laugh. The apartment is unlocked and Sheila opens her mouth to question him but Berger sees it coming and swoops in to swallow her words in a kiss.

Debbie isn’t there. Debbie’s probably never coming back, and he pushes Sheila through the cluttered living room. Berger’s clothes are still strewn across the floor from his afternoon there with Claude a week ago. He pushes them through the living room and then they’re by the bed. He’s got his hands under Sheila’s shirt when he feels Claude’s fingers on his back. He turns away from Sheila’s kiss and his lips meet Claude’s, one hand leaving Sheila’s warm skin to wrap around Claude’s waist.

He’s turned on and he’s high and he loves them, he loves everyone, and he doesn’t care at all that Claude’s only here now because Sheila is home, that Claude only kisses Berger because Berger’s mouth kisses Sheila, because Berger’s hands are on her skin. None of that matters now. They’ll stay like this forever, the three of them, wrapped in each other, and he’ll never provoke another fight and Claude won’t disappear and someday Claude and Sheila will get married, and their children will call him Uncle Berger. And once the kids are in bed maybe, just maybe, it will be just like it is now. Claude and Sheila and Berger.

Claude is kissing Sheila now, tentatively, worried that Berger or Sheila will stop him at any time. They are so beautiful together and it hurts Berger a little to watch them.

He wonders briefly if this is how Claude feels. He wonders if either of them would feel anything without Sheila. If Sheila has always been central to their puzzle.

Berger does interrupt them then. He kisses Claude, then Sheila, and then he pulls Sheila’s shirt up and over her head. Claude hangs back and Berger and Sheila stumble toward the bed as Sheila fumbles with the front of Berger’s jeans, as she pushes them down to his knees. Berger is hard, has been for a while now, and Sheila smiles as she takes him in her hand, laughs when he thrusts into her palm.

He’s missed her. As much as he was upset by Claude’s preoccupation, as much as he pretends he doesn’t care, he really did miss her.

“I missed you, baby,” Berger says now, as he pushes Sheila’s jeans down past her hips.

“I thought Claude was the only one that missed me,” Sheila teases.

“Claude missed you enough for everyone,” Berger snorts and lets Sheila shove him down onto the bed, helps Sheila remove his shirt.

Claude is quiet, watching, perched on the arm of an old torn chair that Sheila and Berger found on a corner a few blocks away. Berger thinks about beckoning, pulling him into their embrace, turning their undivided attention on Claude. Claude, who might stay, might not, whose days may be numbered. But Sheila’s been gone, and Claude looks surprisingly content where he is, and Berger lets him stay.

He turns his full attention to Sheila instead. She’s ready for him and patiently waiting and when he slides in, she laughs just a little and wraps herself around him. Berger can feel Claude’s eyes on him as he kisses Sheila’s neck and thrusts inside her. He can feel Claude’s eyes on his back. He wonders if Sheila can feel it too, if Sheila’s heart is racing just a little faster, if she’s gripping him just a little tighter, meeting his thrusts more desperately than when Claude isn’t there, or if it’s the reunion that makes their coupling seem that much more intense. Berger stops kissing her neck, pulls back a little so that he can look at her face. Her eyes are open and she’s staring past him. She’s staring at Claude, and when she feels Berger’s eyes on her, she smiles. Berger kisses her smiling mouth and thrusts harder so she’s moaning against his lips, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He slides a hand down between their bodies and she closes her eyes and moans as his fingers push her closer to the edge. Her head falls back when she finds her release, her entire body tightening around him before she goes limp in his arms.

Berger pulls away, still hard, and turns toward Claude. Claude doesn’t need to be beckoned. He’s on the bed before Berger can even formulate the request. Claude’s hand strokes Berger as his mouth finds Berger’s in an urgent kiss, his free hand on Berger’s chest, then his shoulder, then his ass. It isn’t long before Berger is spilling over Claude’s hand with a groan. He recovers quickly, reaching for Claude. He yanks Claude’s shirt off and over his head, throwing it to the floor. Berger pushes Claude back onto the bed so that he’s nestled against Sheila, her arms snaking around to hold him close. She presses her lips to Claude’s temple and Claude smiles up at Berger.

Berger unbuttons Claude’s pants and begins pulling them down over Claude’s hips. He yanks until the jeans are down to Claude’s knees. Berger wastes little time then. He circles one hand around the base of Claude’s cock and then covers the tip with his mouth, sucking a little so that Claude’s breath catches and his hips lift up off the bed. Sheila is whispering something in Claude’s ear. Berger can’t hear what she is saying, but whatever it is, it has Claude’s hips jerking up off the bed once more. Berger imagines that Sheila is promising Claude all of the things that Claude has dreamt for months, that Claude is fantasizing about fucking Sheila right here, now. He closes his eyes and sees Sheila’s face, eyes shut tight and mouth open in ecstasy as Claude takes her. Berger moans a little around Claude, his fingers tighten their grip on Claude’s hip.

“Berger,” Claude says, and Berger is a little surprised that Claude remembers his name at all.

**

“Claude seems fine,” Sheila says, later, when Claude is still passed out in her bed. She leads Berger out of the bedroom and shuts the door so that they don’t disturb him. She’d woken Berger up with a shove to his shoulder, her other hand carefully combing fingers through Claude’s hair. Berger gets jolted out of his post-sex slumber while Claude gets pampered and left to snore on alone. Berger isn’t that surprised.

Berger, naked, throws himself onto the couch and says, “Of course he seems fine _now_. You come back and he gets laid. What’s not to seem fine about?”

“You know what I mean,” Sheila says. She’s wearing Claude’s shirt.

Berger shakes his head. “He’ll talk to you.”

“Not if there’s nothing to talk about,” she reasons.

Berger watches Sheila walk to the sink, watches the way Claude’s shirt barely covers her ass as she moves. She grabs a glass from the cupboard and the shirt rises up in the back, revealing a wonderful glimpse of her behind, a part of her that Berger really has missed. He tries to focus on Claude as he watches her inspect the glass to see how well Berger’s been washing dishes, and then fills it with water and turns to lean against the counter.

“You lost the key,” she says before Berger is able to predict the subject change.

Berger shrugs.

“Where’s Debbie?”

Berger shrugs again.

Sheila looks around and then mimics his shrug. “Doesn’t look like anything’s been stolen anyway.”

“He’s going to Vietnam,” Berger says, tries to get things back on track. It’s the first time he’s actually said it and it tastes disgusting and true in his mouth.

“You’re being drafted too,” Sheila points out, her face sympathetic. She gestures to an envelope on the counter.

“I’m not going,” Berger says. “I’ll burn it. I’ll move to Canada first. They won’t get me. I’d never go.”

”Neither would Claude.”

She smiles and sets down her glass of water, crosses the room to the couch where Berger is sprawled. He reaches for her and pulls and she comes willingly, straddling his body and leaning in to kiss his mouth. He clutches at Claude’s shirt and kisses her back.

“I’ll talk to him, baby,” Sheila agrees. “We’re going to have a Be-In. We started planning it this afternoon. Me and Jeanie. We’ll have a Be-In and we’ll burn the cards and we’ll dance and you’ll feel it. You’ll feel it, Banana. These bad vibrations will burn up with the cards and the smoke will clear and the air will smell like the future.”

Berger opens his mouth but Sheila’s quick, and she reaches in and covers it with her hand. Berger smiles against her palm and runs his tongue across it, so that Sheila ends up rolling her eyes and slapping him lightly.

He grabs her ass and pulls her closer so that he can nuzzle her breasts through the thin fabric of Claude’s shirt. The cloth smells like Claude, like Sheila, and Berger breathes in for a moment before sucking her right nipple into his mouth, wetting the fabric, licking at it. After a moment, he gives the left this same attention. Sheila moans quietly above him, her hips moving, and then she pushes him away, curls in to kiss his mouth.

“I’ll talk to Claude,” she promises. She moves to pull Claude’s shirt over her head and Berger reaches out a hand, stops her.

“Leave it on,” he says, his hands moving to grip her sides, thumbs rubbing her nipples through the damp cloth. Sheila closes her eyes and nods.

**

Sheila always keeps her word and Berger watches as Sheila leads Claude away from the group. He stops listening to Woof and Hud and turns to watch Sheila and Claude sitting on the edge of a rock, deep in conversation. Sheila holds both of Claude’s hands in hers and when Claude gets up to leave, Sheila reaches up to touch his face, guides him down for a soft kiss. And then Claude is gone, and Berger is up. He ignores Woof calling his name and is by Sheila’s side in an instant. He kisses her, wants to taste Claude on her lips. When she pulls away, he sits back, eyebrows raised, expectant.

“I already told you,” Sheila says. “I think you’re worried about nothing.”

“He said that?”

“Claude isn’t going to let them get him,” Sheila says. “He’ll be there. Tomorrow night.”

Berger wants to believe her. He does believe her and he lets her words sink in, ease him a little, but it only works for a moment. Sheila isn’t a liar, but Berger knows Claude. It’s Claude he’s not sure he believes, and when Sheila leaves with Jeanie and Dionne to begin their planning, Berger finds Claude and pulls him away from the others.

“What are we doing?” Claude asks.

“We’re sleeping under the stars tonight, Claudio,” Berger says, his hand still firmly enclosed around Claude’s as he pulls him into the trees.

“Sheila?” Claude asks.

“Sheila’s busy,” Berger says, simply. Claude can trick Sheila, but he can’t fool Berger. Sheila doesn’t believe for a second that Claude is seriously contemplating letting them ship him to Vietnam. She thinks that Berger’s not seeing clearly, that Berger’s lost in a paranoid haze of smoke and orgasms, that with each exhale he’s blowing things further out of proportion. She thinks that he doesn’t know Claude as well as he thinks he does. Berger wishes Sheila was right, really wants to believe that Sheila is right, wouldn’t mind the orgasms either. But he knows Claude better than anyone. Berger’s gut knows that Claude thinks he’s lost, that Claude thinks he was placed on this earth for a reason. Berger knows that Claude is too romantic to dismiss the idea of Vietnam before he’s at least contemplated what will happen if he goes. Claude needs a reason to stay.

They find a secluded grassy area and Berger pushes Claude down onto the grass, pulls the folded joints from his back pocket along with the sheet of paper. He hands them both to Claude and then lowers himself to the grass beside him.

“What’s this?” Claude asks, holding up the paper.

“I’m in the club now too,” Berger says. It took no time at all for the draft to find him once he quit school. He’d been expecting it, waiting for it.

Claude stares at the paper but doesn’t unfold it. “You shouldn’t have dropped out,” Claude says.

Berger shrugs. “You did. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” Sheila was the only thing that ever kept him there that long to begin with.

“Berger,” Claude sighs. He passes the joints, neatly folded in a handkerchief, back to Berger. He continues to stare at the paper until Berger reaches over and plucks it from his fingers before tossing it aside. Maybe it will get lost. Maybe the wind will pick up and they won’t be able to find it in the morning. It’ll end up in the lake or picked up by some tourist and tossed into a waste bin. Pigeons will find it and use it to build a nest. Some kid will turn in into spit balls to throw at his sister. It doesn’t matter to Berger, as long as it’s gone.

“I’m burning it tomorrow night,” Berger says.

“Yeah,” Claude agrees. “Me too.”

“Sheila and Dionne have the entire thing planned out,” Berger notes and Claude smiles. Sheila and Dionne always try to plan everything out and nothing ever goes according to their plans. It’s not the way life works and it’s not the way it should be, and they know it and they try to plan it anyway. Berger doesn’t make plans, just does whatever he wants whenever he wants to do it. Life works better that way. That way life always goes according to plan.

Claude settles down until he’s lying on his back, his arms folded behind his head. “There are no stars tonight,” Claude says.

“I see them,” Berger shrugs. He turns to look at Claude. Claude is frowning, staring up at the night sky. Berger stares too. There are probably plenty of stars over Vietnam. The sky must be loaded with them. As soon as he thinks it he knows that Claude is thinking it too.

“What?” Berger asks. He wants to force Claude to say it. He wants to shake Claude, force him to lie to him, to tell Berger that he’d never dream of leaving them, leaving him. “What is it?”

Claude sits up, then turns to look at Berger. “Nothing,” he says.

“Got a lot of nothin’ on your mind lately,” Berger notes. He lights a joint and passes it to Claude. His hand, once free of the joint, curls around the inside of Claude’s thigh. It’s all too heavy, the sky, the piece of paper discarded somewhere behind him, Claude’s silence. It’s too heavy and Berger takes the joint back from Claude, drags on it long and hard, and then lies back in the grass again, pulling Claude down with him.

Claude falls back, his arm thrown out so that it flops across Berger’s chest. He sighs, smiles when Berger lifts his arm to nip a little at his skin like it’s an ear of corn.

They’re quiet for a while, staring at the sky, letting the pot work its magic. Eventually Claude rolls onto his side and kisses Berger’s neck, his hand sliding up into Berger’s hair. Berger closes his eyes and blows a line of smoke straight up into the night.

“I could stay here forever,” Claude says.

Berger wishes he would.

**

The Be-in doesn’t go exactly as Sheila planned. They never do. It starts off well. It’s fun, and Berger is surrounded by people he loves, people he believes in, and he burns his card and he can feel it’s grip releasing him, like a small explosion right in his chest and he grabs Sheila and spins her around and kisses her. She laughs and holds on to him as tight as she can.

And then there’s Claude. Dancing right there with him, cheering as Woof drops his card into the fire, spinning until he falls into the grass laughing. He holds Berger’s hand and he shouts with the others and they dance and Berger almost believes that Claude will go through with it, almost believes that he’s been worrying for nothing, but Berger knows Claude better than that. Claude pulls away at the last second, frozen there in front of the drum. The flames light up his face and he turns, his eyes meet Berger’s. Berger wants to look away, but doesn’t.

It’s shortly after that that the police arrive.

**

“Claude,” Berger says, catching up with him once most of the group has dispersed, going separate ways in the confusion. He lost Sheila somewhere, paused only long enough to grab his clothes and run after Claude. He figured Claude was halfway back to Queens, that Berger would never be able to find him, and so he’s surprised when he catches up with Claude a short distance east of the Sheep Meadow.

“Claude,” he says again when Claude doesn’t stop. He can hear sirens behind them. He reaches out to stop Claude, feels like he’s always reaching out to stop Claude, but this time Claude turns and pushes. Berger doesn’t expect it, stumbles back off the path. He hardly has time to regain his balance before Claude is pressing against him again, pushing Berger into the shadows until Berger feels his back hit a tree, and then Claude’s mouth is pressed to his in a kiss so hard and sudden that their teeth knock together.

Claude’s hands are everywhere, pulling at Berger, then pushing, clutching at Berger’s exposed skin, fingertips pressing so hard that Berger imagines the white marks on his arm from the pressure, _feels_ his skin flushing back to pink as Claude’s hands move on. Claude’s fingers are branding him, marks that will last forever, tattoos all over Berger’s bare skin.

Berger doesn’t care if they get caught. One night in jail is worth this.

He can hear the commotion back on the lawn, but Claude is pulling his shirt over his head, Claude is biting his shoulder and unbuttoning the jeans that Berger had thrown back on as he’d run off into the dark. Claude pulls Berger farther into the trees, pushes the jeans down low on Berger’s hips, just far enough for Claude to reach exactly what he wants.

“Berger -” Claude starts, but Berger’s done trying to talk. His mouth finds Claude’s again. His hands pull at Claude’s shirt. He’s nearly naked and Claude’s wearing way too many clothes. Claude’s always wearing way too many fucking clothes. He wrestles the shirt up and over Claude’s head, drops it to the grass with his own. Claude’s skin is hot, alive, here, and he presses his face to Claude’s collar bone, kisses the spot right beneath his adam’s apple, wraps his arms around Claude’s naked back and holds on.

Claude kisses his forehead, his hair, and then he’s untangling Berger’s arms from around him, pushing Berger away just far enough so that Claude can have his turn. He kisses Berger’s neck, his chest, the crease where his shoulder meets his arm. He kisses the inside of Berger’s elbow, his stomach just above his naval, and then Claude is on his knees, Berger’s hands tangled in his hair. Claude’s hands grip Berger’s hips, holding him close in case he tries to pull away. It’s not really necessary. Berger can’t see himself ever pulling away from Claude.

It’s then, in the park with Claude’s mouth around him, that Berger realizes that he can fix this. That the doomsday scenario won’t help Claude. Claude’s looking for reason, for purpose. Claude just needs a good enough reason to stay. Berger will find that reason. He’ll _be_ that reason if that’s what it takes.

He does pull away from Claude then, but only for a moment, only long enough to drop to his knees, long enough to cradle Claude’s face in his hands, to lean in and taste himself on Claude’s tongue. Claude’s hands drift down between Berger’s legs, resuming where Berger interrupted. Claude’s eyes are closed and Berger’s thumbs caress circles into the tanned skin of Claude’s cheeks. He moans when Claude’s tongue slides across the roof of his mouth, as it tangles with Berger’s and makes promises that Berger will force Claude to keep. Berger’s hand slides down Claude’s warm neck, then along the curve to grip Claude’s shoulder.

Berger hears a noise on the path and Claude’s breathing comes a little faster, Claude’s hand speeds up. Berger wants to stay, definitely doesn’t want to stop Claude from doing what he’s doing. There’s a sense of urgency now, Claude seems determined to finish this, determined to get Berger off even though Claude himself hasn’t had a chance to get out of his own pants.

Berger concentrates on Claude, on Claude’s fingers, on Claude’s face, on his mouth. He’s high and before that he’d been drinking and he thinks it might be too much, it all might be too much. He thrusts into Claude’s hand and the park is bright, white and awake and beautiful. Berger moans and collapses against Claude, tries to catch is breath, his face pressed to Claude’s warm chest.

When he lifts his head it’s the middle of the night again and Claude is reaching for his shirt. He uses it to wipe off his stomach and then rolls it into a ball, tucks it under his arm. He kisses Berger, slow, uncomplicated kisses, and then he pulls away and says, “Have you ever wanted to just disappear?”

“We can disappear,” Berger offers. They can leave New York. They can go as far as their feet will carry them. They’ll live in the woods in Canada, Alaska, somewhere in between. They’ll hunt deer and sleep naked in front of a fire and bathe in a stream or a lake. Anything. It doesn’t matter. They’ll disappear.

“Yeah,” Claude agrees. “Maybe.” He shrugs at Berger and one side of his mouth turns up in a smile. Berger smiles back, leans against the tree and closes his eyes. When he opens them again Claude is gone.

**

This time Claude disappears for a week.

“He’ll turn up,” Sheila insists, but Berger finds himself in a bit of a panic. Instead of staying put at Sheila’s suggestion, Berger checks in everywhere that he thinks that Claude might go. This time Berger even goes to Queens. Claude’s father shuts the door in Berger’s face, but not before interrogating him on Claude’s whereabouts.

“I don’t like this,” Berger tells Woof.

“Claude’s okay,” Woof says, mostly because Woof is high and everything is okay with Woof as long as Woof is high. Berger understands that.

“Claude’s great.” Woof adds. He passes his joint to Berger. Berger takes it and hopes that the drugs will make everything okay for him again too. Woof laughs and wraps an arm around Berger’s shoulders, plants a sloppy kiss on Berger’s cheek.

“I love you,” he says, and then laughs some more.

Berger turns and kisses Woof on the mouth, pats Woof’s back and then extracts himself from Woof’s embrace. He holds out a hand to pull Woof up off the ground.

“Where are we going?” Woof asks, but he takes Berger’s hand, lets Berger pull him through the city, follows on Berger’s heels for three days. They spend the first day in Grand Central Station, the second in Penn, a third in Port Authority. They see a million people, but no sign of the only one Berger’s looking for.

On the fourth day Berger gets angry, gives up.

**

When Claude finally does return, there is no real explanation. He spouts off bullshit about where he was, goes on and on about cleaning his room as though he’s really fooling anyone. He isn’t fooling Berger. Claude’s been _preparing_ and these are the beginnings of his goodbyes.

And Berger, he’s just been sitting here wasting time. He spent three days searching for Claude instead of concentrating on a reason that will convince Claude to stay. Berger’s the one who should have been preparing, not running all over the city like a maniac.

Even Sheila sees it now. She stops trying to tell Berger that he’s worrying about nothing. Instead she holds him when he lays his head in her lap, rubs his back and watches Claude try to smile like everything is great.

Berger spends the next days dragging Claude to all of his favorite places in the city. They roam until their feet ache and their backs are sore and then Berger brings Claude back to Sheila’s, pulls off his shirt, kisses his chest. They sleep tangled together on Sheila’s couch, or spread out on a lawn in Central Park.

Jeanie comes with them one day, hangs on Claude’s arm. In the afternoon she sews the yellow shirt back together, removes the sleeves and uses them to patch the backside of Berger’s favorite jeans. Berger kisses her in thanks, then dances across the room to kiss Claude hard. The satin patch in his jeans slides along the skin of his thigh. He grabs Claude and dances him in a circle, rubs his cheek against Claude’s before releasing him, before pulling Jeanie in and kissing her again. Jeanie understands and hugs Berger tight. It’s the closest he’s ever felt to her.

When they’ve finished with all of Berger’s favorite spots, they start in on Claude’s. Claude’s favorites are all the busiest places in the city, the train stations and bus stations, Times Square and Battery Park and Ellis Island. All of the places where people come and go. Berger likes the places where people stay a while.

Claude likes to ask where people are going, find out where they’ve been. Berger loses count of the number of people they talk to, the people they hug, the people who push them away. Claude loves them all, but it isn’t enough. Berger and New York City and all of these people from everywhere. Berger can tell it won’t be enough and that even this love song is turning into a goodbye.

**

He gets the joint from Hud with a promise that it will change Claude’s perspective on life.

“You’ll see the light,” Berger promises, more to himself than to Claude. Berger doesn’t really care what it does as long as Claude has a good time. Berger’s almost done thinking he can change the future. It’s never worked for him. It’s now that matters, here and now with Claude. Berger will leave the future to Sheila.

He doesn’t know what’s in the joint, but whatever it is, Hud was right. It’s beautiful. It’s clouds and colors and clarity and love. They lie in the grass for a while, just touching, sharing breath. Berger feels like he’s flying.

He leans over Claude, their legs tangled. Claude jumps and then grips Berger’s arm, laughs.

“What?”

“I thought I was going to fall,” Claude says, shakes his head like he feels he’s being stupid.

“So fall,” Berger says. He’ll catch Claude. He’s right here, passing Claude the joint again, leaning over him farther to get a better look at his face. Sheila will catch Claude. She’s right behind him, his head in her lap, her fingers in his hair.

“Fall,” Sheila repeats. She’s looking at Berger when she says it. Berger leans in closer to Claude until finally Claude gives in, reaches for him, pulls him down into a kiss. It feels electric, alive, and when Claude tries to pull away, blissed out, content, Berger shifts, lowers himself so that he’s resting on Claude, so that their mouths can meet again.

He’s high, he took a pill that Walter gave him, and he’s drunk on sex and Sheila and Claude. The world is spinning a little and he closes his eyes and sucks at Claude’s skin, tries to memorize the taste.

Sheila’s hands are in his hair now too, stroking, pulling a little, petting. Berger loves her, he thinks. Berger loves Woof and Hud and Jeanie and Dionne. Berger loves Claude. He thinks he says it, tells Claude, but he can’t hear the words. Claude smiles against Berger’s mouth, pushes and shifts until Claude is the one looking down at Berger, Claude is the one in control and Berger is the one falling through fields and waterfalls and warm beach sand. He loves Claude and he says it again in case Claude couldn’t hear the words either.

“I love you, man,” he says, and he’s sure he’s said it before, a hundred times to a hundred people and he meant it every single time. “I love you.”

Claude might say he knows, he might say nothing at all. He might not even be real. Berger’s pretty sure he’s still real, still here, and he let’s Claude push his vest off of his shoulders, holds Claude’s head while Claude kisses his skin, his mouth, his eyelids. His jeans disappear, like they’d never been there in the first place, like he’s been this naked every day since the day he was born. Sheila’s disappeared with his jeans, but Claude is here and Claude’s naked too. Claude is here and his hair shines and his eyes are wet and he kisses Berger’s chest, wraps a hand around Berger’s dick, and smiles.

“Come on,” Claude says, like Berger is holding him up. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” But Claude isn’t moving, seems content stroking Berger, stroking himself, stroking them both together at the same time.

“We don’t do this enough,” Berger says, and Claude laughs, kisses his mouth, sucks on Berger’s tongue.

“We should do this every day,” Berger continues, breaking the kiss just long enough to form the shape of the words against Claude’s cheek.

Berger wonders again what happened to Sheila, why she disappeared and why Claude hasn’t asked about her yet.

“Where’s Sheila?” Berger gives in, and this time Claude’s the one to tell him that it doesn’t matter.

“She’s here,” Claude says.

They’re still in the park, Berger knows that they’re still in the park, but he feels the sheets of Sheila’s bed beneath him. He reaches for Claude, kisses him, thrusts up against him. Claude’s hand starts to move, moves back until it disappears between Berger’s legs, until Berger feels the press of a single finger and he pushes back against the sheets, spreads his legs wider, and starts talking. He tells Claude how good this feels, about love and peace and fields of strawberries and daisies. He tells Claude about the homeless man in Washington Square that Berger passes on his way to the Subway, on the days when Berger can afford the Subway. He tells Claude how beautiful the man is, how anonymous, a part of the entire city while he sits on his edge of the park. He’s Berger’s best friend and Berger can’t even remember his name.

Claude pushes in, stretching Berger, connecting, and Berger moans and tells Claude to go faster, harder, tells Claude about bathing in Canadian rivers, drying off under Indian suns. They’ll dance around the fire, fall asleep naked and tangled on a hard wooden floor. It won’t be anything like Vietnam. There will be snow and there will be heat.

Berger’s hips move. He tries to meet Claude’s thrusts in a rhythm that almost matches, but doesn’t. Claude holds Berger’s hips, guides them, and when Berger reaches up to touch Claude’s face, Claude kisses the palm of his hand and Berger thinks this is it. This is the light and Claude will stay in it forever.

**

When Berger wakes up he’s back in the park, his clothes have reappeared, and Claude is shouting. Someone calls for him and Berger’s on his feet, pushing through the group that surrounds Claude. Claude’s curled up on his side, Sheila over him, shaking him, calling his name.

“Claude,” Berger joins in. “Claudio.”

Claude wakes up with a start, shouts again, pushes Berger away.

“What did you put in that joint?” Claude asks. It’s like an accusation, and it doesn’t take long for Berger to realize that Claude was somewhere else entirely. Berger was alone and Claude didn’t see any light.

Claude’s talking about the future and it’s dark and final and not anything like the way Berger’s envisioned it for him. He brushes Claude’s words aside, covers them with his own, tries to force light into the dark, to drown the truth. But this is it and Berger’s out of ideas.

It hurts to look at Claude and he turns to find Sheila, buries himself in her arms. He listens to Claude talk about snow. He listens to Woof proposition Crissy, then Dionne. He listens to them all make plans like it’s any night, every night, and Berger thinks he might hate them in that moment, doesn’t understand how it’s possible that he’s the only one to see this for what it is.

“Will you marry me?” Claude asks then and Berger looks up. He’s lost track of the conversation happening around him, is unsure of who Claude’s talking to. Claude’s standing over them, hands open in front of him. He’s talking to Sheila, of course. Berger sees their children with Sheila’s hair and Claude’s eyes. He sees them all, together, old and shaggy, and suddenly the night doesn’t seem so dark. It all makes sense.

He should have known it would be Sheila all along.

Berger can’t stop Claude going, but Sheila can. Sheila can stop time and change the weather. Sheila can save lives and end wars. Sheila is Claude’s light and all this time Berger’s been standing there blocking the sun.

Sheila touches Claude’s face and kisses Claude’s cheek. She’s saying something, but Berger can’t hear her. He’s not even trying to listen. Berger knows what has to happen next.

He wraps himself around Claude. He’ll stay like this forever. He’ll stay like this until Claude’s draft notice rots and turns to dust and they’re still here in the park. It’ll rain on them and snow and birds will nest in Berger’s hair, build their homes, teach baby birds to fly, and Berger won’t fucking care. He won’t fucking care as long as it keeps Claude out of Vietnam.

Sheila talks about saving the world, makes plans. They’ll go to Whitehall Street, they’ll raise their voices. It won’t do anything. It won’t save anyone. Sheila’s the only one who might be able to help him now.

“Tonight is the last night of the world,” Claude says, and Berger believes him.

**

It takes some time, but eventually Berger succeeds in maneuvering them away from the group, his right hand wrapped around Sheila’s, his left pulling Claude. They’re on the subway before Sheila catches on, gets why Berger has gone from desperate defeat straight to buzzing anticipation, why he insists on sitting on the opposite side of the car. Her eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t fight him, just nods and slides closer to Claude, sets a hand on his knee. Claude stares at her hand for a moment, then looks up and meets Berger’s eyes. Berger smiles, as close to a grin as he can manage.

When the train stops, Sheila releases Claude, follows Berger out of the car, pushes him against the nearest wall, and kisses him. He grabs her, lifts so that she’s straddling him, and opens his mouth for her. It’s a thank you and it isn’t enough, but he means it, he puts his heart into it, and he can tell that Sheila knows. She holds on to him tight for a moment longer and then untangles herself, turns back toward Claude.

Claude’s smiling sheepishly at them, just taking it in in that way that Claude always does. His eyelids droop a little and he ducks his head like they’ve just caught him spying on a private moment.

Berger throws an arm across Claude’s shoulders, pulls him along. Sheila closes in on Claude’s other side, slides her arm around his waist. They stumble down the sidewalk, three people pressed together into one. Claude laughs as he trips over their feet and Berger closes his eyes, lets them guide him through the city. With his eyes shut, it feels like any other night, no more important, no less beautiful. With his eyes shut, Berger can see that it will all work out, that Sheila will put Claude under her spell, that she’ll save him the way she’s always tried to save Berger. With his eyes shut, Berger can see outside New York, north to the snowy hills, past them to anonymity, to freedom.

When Berger opens his eyes again they’re in Washington Square Park. The man is there in his spot across from Sullivan. Berger’s best friend.

Berger stops on the sidewalk and Claude’s foot catches around his ankle so they nearly topple over. Berger untangles himself, pulls himself into a single person again.

“Hey, man,” he says, approaches.

“Hey,” the guy responds. He’s old, like fifty at least, and his gray hair curls around his shoulders.

“Where’d you come from?” Berger asks.

“Berger,” Claude urges, but Berger waves them on, says he’ll be up in a minute. This night isn’t about him. He shouldn’t witness it. Sheila knows, she always understands him when it counts the most, and she pulls at Claude’s arm. Claude waits there another moment before letting Sheila pull him on down the sidewalk.

Berger sits in Washington Square Park and smokes a joint with his friend. It’s cold. It’s only going to get colder. It might even snow.

He waits. He’s not sure how long. Long enough to find out that his friend’s name is Martin, that he’s lived all over New York. Martin _is_ New York. Berger wouldn’t mind being Martin one day. Free like Martin.

Maybe if Debbie doesn’t return, Martin can have Debbie’s room. Not for forever, Martin wouldn’t want that. Who would? Debbie’s room is fucking depressing, but it’s a room and it’s there and Martin might want it sometime. It’s not like Claude would need his own room anyway. He’d never sleep there. Berger wouldn’t let him.

“Your girl’s fucking that boy,” Martin points out after a long stretch of quiet. Martin knows, of course. Martin is the city and he spends his days watching them come and go.

Berger laughs and takes the joint back from Martin.

“You’re gonna let that boy have your girl like that?”

“That’s the idea, yeah,” Berger says.

Martin shakes his head and Berger thinks that maybe Martin’s just too old to understand. He rolls the joint between his fingers, watches the smoke spiral off the end. He closes his eyes and breathes deep and he can see it now. He can see them together, their naked bodies sliding against each other in a beautiful rhythm. He can see the awe on Claude’s face as he kisses Sheila’s breast, surrounds himself in Sheila’s warmth. He can see Sheila, the way she bites her lip to keep from crying out too loudly as her fingernails leave red marks on Claude’s arms, his shoulders. Berger can see it and it’s gorgeous and it’s perfect. And it doesn’t belong to him.

“She’s not really my girl,” Berger says finally, opening his eyes.

Martin frowns at him. “I’ve seen you two,” he says. “That girl’s crazy about you.”

Berger laughs, loud and short, and then shrugs, doesn’t really want to get into it. Martin doesn’t need to know that Berger’s dreamt the future and Claude and Sheila are it. He doesn’t need to know that Berger was just a placeholder, that this is Berger finally getting out of the way.

Martin shakes his head again, looks up at the night sky.

“This isn’t about her anyway, man,” Berger says.

“It’s about that boy,” Martin supplies.

“It’s about that boy,” Berger agrees. “Yeah.”

Martin huffs a little, sick of Berger’s company now, but Berger doesn’t care. He hands the joint off to Martin, who isn’t sick enough of Berger to turn it away.

He used to think Sheila was the center of it all, the most important piece in their puzzle, their glue. It isn’t true. It’s Claude. Without Claude they’ll fall apart. Without Claude they probably should. Claude is the center, Claude is his light.

Berger might still be losing Claude tonight, but it’s far better to lose him to Sheila than to the war.

Berger stands and turns toward the direction of Sheila’s apartment.

“Where are you going?” Martin asks.

Berger answers him with a wave as he leaves the square. He doesn’t know how much time has passed. He doesn’t think it’s been that long, but this is Claude and this is Sheila. Berger smiles to himself. Claude’s been waiting a year for this moment. It shouldn’t take long.

He takes the steps two at a time. The door is unlocked and the cluttered living area is dark, empty. He kicks off his shoes and pads across the floor. He passes Sheila’s shirt, discarded beside the couch.

Sheila’s laughter floats out of the bedroom and Berger stops, thinks now that coming up was a mistake. He should have let them have their space. This is their night, not his. Berger’s unchained them from him, he’s let them go and he has no right to them now. He’s here just waiting to be turned away. He should go now, save himself the scene, but when Sheila says, “Berger, baby, that you?” he crosses the last few steps to the door and nudges it open with hardly a moment’s hesitation.

They’re as wonderful together as he imagined, perfect and golden, and Berger’s breath catches in his throat. He coughs and turns away. Their fingers are intertwined, Claude’s head resting comfortably on the pillow of Sheila’s breast. Her free hand combs through Claude’s hair. Claude smiles at Berger and the smile reaches all the way up into his eyes. He sits up, pulls away from Sheila now that Berger is here.

”We weren’t sure if you were coming back,” Sheila says. “Thought you might sit out there all night.”

“I can go,” Berger suggests. Woof is in the park, Berger’s sure. Finding him should be easy. He can catch up with Claude and Sheila on Whitehall Street tomorrow morning. It’s really what he should do, what he should have done before he came up the stairs. He takes a step back into the dark living room, but Claude is up, reaching for him before Berger can leave.

“Don’t,” Claude says.

Berger opens his mouth to protest, looks past Claude to Sheila. She’s smiling. She hugs her bare knees to her chest and nods at Berger.

Claude stops in front of him, suddenly apprehensive. He reaches out to pluck at Berger’s shirt. Berger lifts an arm and pushes at Claude’s shoulder with two fingers.

Claude snorts, shakes his head, and then he’s grabbing Berger’s arm, pulling Berger in, hugging him. Claude holds him tight and Berger kisses his shoulder, tastes Sheila on Claude’s skin. She’s still smiling and as he watches her she leans back against the pillows and closes her eyes, sated and happy. It’s a good sign and Berger feels his heart speed up in his chest, feels relief flooding through his veins. He isn’t enough of a reason for Claude, but it’s okay. Berger has Sheila and Sheila just might be reason enough for all of them.

Berger feels like he’s been holding on to Claude forever, and for the first time in weeks it’s safe to loosen his grip. Claude is safe, he’s with Sheila, and they won’t be needing him anymore, not really, but they might let him stay anyway. He lets go a little, just enough to run his hands down Claude’s naked back, fingertips sliding across Claude’s skin.

Claude pushes at Berger’s shirt, pulling it up so that the fabric slides up past the press of their chests. Berger reluctantly releases Claude, helps him with the shirt. When Berger’s free of it, Claude kisses the base of his neck, slides his hands down Berger’s sides, runs his fingers along the line of Berger’s ribs.

“I wanted to wait for you,” Claude admits. Berger thinks it’s probably a lie, but it doesn’t matter.

“Martin’s more interesting than the two of you,” Berger shrugs. Another lie.

“Who’s Martin?” Claude asks.

“No one,” Berger says. “I didn’t want you to wait.”

“Yeah,” Claude nods. “I know.” He pulls Berger toward the bed, pausing only to help Berger remove his jeans. Berger follows Claude’s hands with his eyes, then covers them with his own.

Claude leans in and kisses him and Berger sighs. They’ll let him stay. Berger won’t have to lose anyone just yet.

When he’s good and naked, Berger climbs onto the bed, crawls across the sheets until he’s leaning over Sheila. He kisses her neck, right below her ear. He feels Claude’s mouth on his back and he smiles against Sheila’s skin, says, “Sheila, baby. I think you did it. You saved the world.”

Sheila opens her eyes and Berger is surprised by the love he sees there. For him and for Claude. He turns toward Claude and sees the same thing mirrored in Claude’s eyes.

Berger lies back against the pillows. He closes his eyes and sees Claude and Sheila sprawled out in front of a fire while snow falls outside. Sheila’s belly is big and round like Jeanie’s and she glows in the red light. He thinks about India, bright fabrics and warm sun. They’ll dance and they’ll sing and stay high forever. He thinks about New York, about Martin, and he sees himself on that corner, graying hair, Sheila’s children hanging out with him there on warm afternoons.

Sheila shifts against him, turning toward the fire. Claude’s hand at his side is like the flames licking his skin. Claude’s mouth is just as hot on Berger’s neck and Berger pulls himself back to the present. Claude is watching him. He feels Sheila's breath, soft and steady, warm against his arm. When Claude leans back and smiles, his eyes sparkle with it.

“You’re coming with us to the protest on Whitehall Street,” Berger says. He wraps an arm around Claude, pulls him in close. “And then we’ll smuggle you off to Canada.” Canada, India, where they go doesn’t matter as long as they’re gone. Berger doesn’t care. He’s never cared.

Claude kisses Berger’s shoulder, rests his head against it so that his hair tickles against Berger's neck.

“They won’t get us,” Berger adds. Claude doesn’t respond, doesn't have to, just holds Berger closer.

Berger doesn't think about the future often. Now is what matters. But when Berger does think about it, thinks about where he wants to be, he always ends up in the same place. In ten years, Berger wants to be right here, just like this between Claude and Sheila. Older, hairier, but just like this.

It can happen. He tells Claude so as he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
